Súráb is a populous valley, very fertile, and freely watered by many
little streams from the mountains. Its elevation is about 5910 feet at
Khán Calá, and consequently its winter is a rigorous season. It now
wears a most dreary aspect, but in summer it is said to be bright with
corn-fields and gardens in full force. At that season, too, the Azákhel
and Khulkná Khad plateaux are covered with the busy camps of the Mingal
Brahoe, who are now dispersed amongst the lower hills of Nal and Wadd.
The migratory life led by these people is one more of necessity than
of choice it seems; for their hills are so bare, that they produce no
timber fit for building purposes, nor forage sufficient for the support
of the flocks, whilst much of the soil of the plateaux is so gravelly and
impregnated with salines as to be unfit either for cultivation or for
building the domed huts so common in Kandahar and many parts of Persia;
and, besides, though last mentioned, not the least difficulty is the
general scarcity of water everywhere. Since we left the Míloh rivulet at
Narr, we have not seen a single stream one could not easily step across
dryshod.
Towards midnight the wind subsided, the clouds dispersed, the stars shone
out, and a hard frost set in. Fortunately we were all warmly housed in
the village, and did not suffer from it; and this is as much as I can
say for it on that score. In other respects, our domicile was none of
the most agreeable, for though tired and sleepy by the day’s exertion
and suffering, it was impossible to get either rest or sleep. The fire,
lighted in the centre of our little hut, filled its single unventilated
chamber with blinding clouds of suffocating smoke. We no sooner escaped
these troubles by lying close on the ground, when our attempts to sleep
were at once dissipated by another form of torment, to wit, the fierce
attacks of multitudes of the most vicious fleas and other vermin of that
sort. They literally swarmed all over the place, and allowed us no rest
throughout the night. I could only exist by repeatedly going out and
breathing a little fresh air, which at daylight I found to be 23° Fah.
It must have been colder during the night, though it did not feel so,
probably owing to the subsidence of the wind.
_21st January._—Whilst the baggage was being loaded, I examined some
faggots of the fuel that had been collected here from the adjacent
hills for the use of our camp, and recognised the following plants,
with their native names following each, namely:—Juniper (_hápurs_),
ephedra (_náróm_, the _hóm_ of the Afghans), wild almond (_harshín_),
wild olive (_khat_, the _khoan_ of the Afghans), wild peach (_kotor_),
and salvadora oleoides? (_piplí_). The last is said to be poisonous to
camels, though not to goats and sheep. On the Anjíra plateau I obtained
specimens of the following plants, viz.:—Caper spurge (_ritáchk_),
peganum (_kisánkúr_), artemisia sp. (_khardarno_), caroxylon (_righit_),
camel-thorn (_shenálo_), withiana congulans (_panír band_), and a species
of lycopodion (_kásákun_).
We set out from Súráb at 10.45 A.M., and proceeded due north over an
undulating plateau with hills on either hand. The soil was spongy with
efflorescent salines, and the surface was covered with a thick growth
of aromatic wormwood. A strong and keen north wind blew against us the
whole day. On starting, I went off the road a little to get a couple
of blue pigeons I had seen alight on a ploughed field. The cold was so
intense, by reason of the wind, that my fingers, although encased in
thick woollen gloves, were at once numbed, and I could only carry my gun
by shifting it constantly from hand to hand. Presently the pain became
very acute, and lasted for more than half-an-hour, whilst I rubbed the
hands together to restore the circulation. The poor pigeons must have
had a hard time of it battling against the relentless blasts of Boreas;
and the fate that transferred them from the bare clods of a wintry
wind-scoured field to the warm recesses of a well-seasoned “blaze-pan” (a
very excellent kind of travelling stewpan) was, after all, not so cruel a
one as it might have been had some hungry hawk forestalled me.
After marching an hour, we passed Hajíka hamlet under the hills to the
right; and still continuing over a wide pasture tract, at 1.20 P.M.
arrived at Gandaghen Sarae, and camped under the lee of its walls for
protection from the wind, our escort finding shelter in its interior.
There is a large pool of water here, fed by a sluggish spring oozing
from under a ledge of conglomerate rock, only slightly raised above the
general level of the country. We found it frozen over. Our escort, after
watering their horses here, galloped them about for a quarter of an hour
or more, to prevent spasms from the combined effects of wind and water,
and not from the fear, as I supposed, of any ill effects from the water
itself, which was very brackish.
Gandaghen is thirteen miles from Súráb, and there is neither water, nor
tree, nor habitation, nor cultivation on the road between them. Hajíka
was the only village we saw, and it lay some miles off the road. The
weather was clear and sunny, with a blue sky, but the air was biting
cold, and the north wind quite withering. At 9 P.M. the thermometer fell
to 16° Fah., and at daylight stood at 10° Fah. At this place two more
of our mule-drivers deserted with the warm clothing we had provided for
them; they were both Pathans of Kandahar.
Our next stage was fifteen miles to Rodinjo. The morning was bright
and sunny, but bitterly cold, with a keen north wind. Our tent awnings
were frozen stiff as boards, and could not be struck till near 10 A.M.,
for fear of the cloth snapping. The morning sun, however, thawed them
sufficiently for packing, and by 10.35 A.M. we were fairly started on the
march. We followed a well-trodden path over the pasture land of Mall, and
at about half-way came to the camping-ground of Damb, where is a small
pool of brackish water at the foot of a detached mound.
I struck off the road in company with our _mihmandár_ (conductor and
entertainer), Mulla Dost Muhammad, in hopes of getting a hare, of which
animals he assured us there were untold numbers in the wormwood scrub
covering the plain. We had ridden some distance without seeing a single
living creature, or any signs of one except the shell of a tortoise (here
called _sarkúk_), and the shrivelled skin of a hedgehog or _jájak_,
as it is here called. My companion was telling me that the egg of the
tortoise was used by the Brahoe, whipped up with water and smeared over
the postules, as a remedy to prevent pitting from small-pox; and I was
just making a mental note to the effect that an ordinary hen’s egg might
be used with equal advantage under similar circumstances, when a hare
dashed out across our path. I was holding my gun, a double-barrelled
breech-loader by Dougall, resting against the shoulder at the moment,
but it was instantly down at the “present,” and fired, but no puss
was to be seen. “You have missed,” said the Mulla; “her hour of death
(_ajal_) has not arrived.” “I am not sure of that,” I said; “I heard a
squeak, and am going to see;” so saying, I dismounted, and giving him my
pony to hold, moved forward to examine the bushes, the while adjusting
a fresh cartridge. I had hardly advanced forty or fifty paces, when I
instinctively “ducked” to a sudden, sharp, rushing sound, _wsheeooh_,
close over my head, and caught sight of a great bird alight at a bush
some forty or so yards ahead. To step aside and fire straight upon him
was the work of an instant, and then running up, I found a great black
eagle sprawling over the hare, whose stomach was already torn open. Both
were secured to my saddle-straps, and the pony, taking fright at these
unaccustomed bodies dangling against his flanks, set off at full speed
across the plain towards the rest of the party, whom we overtook at
Damb. The hare formed a welcome addition to our _blaze_, and the black
eagle (_siyáh waccáb_) forms the largest specimen amongst the bird-skins
I collected on this journey. The stretch of the wings from tip to tip
measured very nearly eight feet.
Beyond Damb we halted half-an-hour at a pebbly ravine skirting a low
ridge, to let the baggage get on, and then proceeding over an undulating
country similar to that already traversed, arrived at Rodinjo at 2.20
P.M., and camped under the lee of the _sarae_ outside the village for
shelter from the wind. This is a neat little village of about 180
houses. Many little hill-streams run over the surface, which is widely
cultivated. There are some very fine white poplar and willow trees here,
and two or three small apricot orchards. The elevation of Rodinjo is 6650
feet above the sea.
_23d January._—The cold during the night was severe. At daylight the
mercury stood at 14° Fah., and between seven and eight A.M. rose to 22°
Fah. Our servants were so numbed and stupefied by it that we could not
get them to move till they had had some hours sunning. We got away at
11.10 A.M., and proceeded northwards over an undulating plain bounded
on the east and west by low hills. The width of the plain is about six
miles, and its surface presents nothing but an unvaried scrub of wormwood
growing on a soft, spongy, and gravelly soil. Neither village, nor
tree, nor camp, nor, except a few very widely separated little patches,
cultivation is to be seen, nor is any water to be found on it.
After marching an hour we came to a ridge of magnesian limestone, at the
foot of which a small well is sunk in the rock. Beyond this we entered
a narrow gully, winding between high banks of gravel and shingle, and
rose up to a gap from which the valley of Calát, and the Mírí or palace,
dominating the town at the end of a subsiding ridge of rock, lay before
us. The scene was wild and dreary, and all nature seemed withered by the
chill of winter.
From the gap we went down a long declivity between low ridges, and
passing under the walls of the Mírí, and round the fortifications of
the town, crossed the largest rivulet we have seen in the country, and
alighted at a house prepared, or, I should properly say, emptied, for our
reception, in a garden a mile to the north of the town, our arrival being
announced by a salute of eleven guns from the citadel—distance, thirteen
miles. A little way down the slope from the gap above mentioned, we
were met by an _isticbál_, or ceremonial reception party, headed by Mír
Karam Khán, a handsome youth of some eighteen years, with glossy black
curly ringlets hanging over his shoulders. He is a nephew of the Khán’s
(sister’s son), and though so young, already looks worn out and enervated
by too early and too free an abuse of the pleasures prized by Eastern
potentates. He was gaily dressed, and mounted on a powerful and spirited
horse, richly caparisoned with silver-mounted trappings. But the whole
effect of this _grande tenue_ was marred by his timid seat and awkward
clutches every now and again, as the horse pranced, at the high pommel of
the saddle, which rose up in front as if it had been purposely put there
for the rider to hold on by.
He was attended by Mír Saggid Muhammad, Iltáfzai, a cousin of the Khán’s,
and was followed by a party of twenty-five or thirty horsemen—the most
ragged and motley troop I ever saw. There was the Persian and the Pathan,
the Brahoe and the Baloch, the Sindhí and the Sídí, each clad in his own
national costume and armour, but the poorest of its kind, and all mounted
on very inferior, weedy, and unkept ponies. They gradually dropped off
from us as we passed under the town.
Two hours after our arrival, we donned our uniforms and went to call
on the Khán at the Mírí. The cold was withering, and a keen north wind
cut us to the very bones. The ground was frozen hard, and snow-wreaths
lay under the shade of the walls. Our path led across a brisk rivulet,
flowing in a wide pebbly channel—the same we had crossed a while ago; and
then past some walled fields to the town itself, which we entered by a
gate leading into the main bazaar—a poor and decayed collection of shops
ranged on each side of a filthy street. From this we went up a steep and
slippery ascent, very narrow, and flanked by high walls. Dismounting at
the top, we groped our way through a dark winding passage, strewed with
all sorts of filth and litter, and redolent of the nastiest smells, and
suddenly arrived at the door of the Khán’s reception room, where we
found him standing to receive us.
We shook hands all round, with the usual complimentary phrases, and at
once entering the room, were conducted to a row of chairs placed at its
upper end. Khudádád Khán, the chief of Calát, and Major-General Pollock
occupied the two central seats, and Major Harrison and myself those
on either side. On the floor in front of us were spread two dirty old
Persian carpets, separated by a space in which was placed a great dish
of live charcoal. At the edge of the carpets, to the right and left, sat
a number of court officials, and at the further end fronting us stood
the Khán’s bodyguard, a dozen of the most unshorn, ragged, and ruffianly
set of cut-throats it would be possible to collect anywhere. No two
were clad or armed alike, and each looked a greater scoundrel than his
neighbour. Where the Khán collected such a unique set of villains I
cannot understand. I never saw anything to equal their barbarous attire
and rascally looks anywhere.
One more personage remains to complete the picture of the Khán’s court
as we found it on this memorable occasion, for I never think of that
cold ride without a shiver running through my limbs. Crouched up against
the wall to the left of our row of chairs was a portly individual with
a jovial fat face and a sleek beard, which would have been white had he
but treated it to a little soap and water. He shuffled about under the
bundle of clothes—neither clean nor new—that mostly concealed his figure,
as from time to time he joined in the conversation as one in authority
and in the Khán’s confidence. This was Wazír Walí Muhammad, aged seventy
years, the most sensible man in Calát, the Khán’s truest friend, and a
stanch ally of the British Government, of which his experience runs
through the past and present generation. He was a friend to Masson when
he visited this place in 1831, and he was present when the town was
taken, eight years later, by the force under General Willshire, the
chief, Mihráb Khán, being killed in the defence, with four hundred of his
men.
The present chief, Khudádád Khán, is about thirty-eight years of age. He
has a vacant and at times silly look, and his conversation is trifling.
He does not convey the impression of being a man of any weight or
ability, and is said to spend most of his time amongst his women. During
our visit his two sons were introduced. They were pretty children and
richly dressed. The eldest, Mír Mahmúd, was aged seven years, and the
other, Mír Shahnawáz, was aged three years.
Such is the composition of the court of Calát. The reception room in
which we were assembled is a very mean and neglected chamber. The roof
is low and the walls—they had been whitewashed, but apparently very long
ago—were cracked in a dangerous manner, and altogether the place wore a
very poor and untidy look. The north and west sides of the chamber were
occupied by a succession of latticed windows, from which there is a fine
prospect of the whole valley and its villages and gardens. This is the
one redeeming point in the whole palace, which is only a jumble of huts
piled together one above the other to a great height above the rest of
the town, of which it forms the most prominent object as seen from a
distance.
It is not usual for the Khán to winter here, owing to the severity of the
climate. His winter residence is in the milder climate of Gandáva where
he has a palace. This year he is kept here by the rebellion of his barons.
We took our leave, and returned to our quarters by the route we came,
and very glad to get under shelter again, for our close-fitting uniforms
were ill calculated to protect us from such cold, which is here greater
than we have anywhere experienced. During the night the thermometer must
have sunk to zero outside, for next morning it stood at 8° Fah. in a
court full of servants and cattle, and warmed by several little fires.
By my aneroid barometer I estimated the elevation of Calát at about 6750
feet above the sea. Hard frost prevailed all the time we were here.
We halted here the next day, and at four P.M. the Khán, attended by his
son, Mír Mahmúd, and nephew, Mír Kuram Khán, came to return our visit. He
was richly dressed, and rode a fine Baloch horse caparisoned with gold
trappings; but he is altogether wanting in deportment, and impressed me
even more unfavourably than he did yesterday.
He is the head of the Kambarání family, who claim Arab descent, and
profess to come originally from Aleppo. This family has held the
government for several generations, and is now reckoned as the royal
tribe amongst the Brahoe, though they themselves are neither Brahoe
nor Baloch. The Kambarání take wives from both tribes, but they give
their daughters to neither, though all are Sunni Muhammadans. In the
days of their prosperity, the Kambarání chiefs ruled over the whole of
Balochistan as independent despots, owning only nominal allegiance to
the Afghan monarchy established by Sháh Ahmad, Durrani. At that time, as
now, Balochistan comprised six principal divisions, viz., Kach, Gandáva,
Jhálawán, Calát, Sahárawán, Makrán, and Las Bela. Only the four first of
these divisions now acknowledge the authority of the Calát chief. Las
Bela is independent under a _quasi_ tributary chief; whilst Makrán is
divided between Persia and a number of petty local chiefs, whose tenures
possess no stability owing to their intestine feuds and rivalries. The
endurance of the rule of the present chief of Calát, too, does not appear
very secure, owing to the prolonged rebellion of some of his principal
barons.
The Khán’s visit was not a very long one, nor very entertaining. He
repeated the same queries with which he assailed us yesterday. “How
old are you?” “Are you married?” “How many children have you?” and so
forth. “How many teeth have you?” only was wanting to bring the list of
impertinences to a climax. My gun was produced for his inspection, and
the General’s gyroscope was set in motion for the amusement of his son.
He handled the gun awkwardly, and examined it perfunctorily, without a
trace of interest, as if the attempt to understand its mechanism were
quite a hopeless task. The wonderful performances of the gyroscope drew
forth some exclamations of astonishment, and when, by an erratic dash, it
startled an old gentleman sitting on the floor into a sudden somersault
in his haste to escape its attack, it produced a decided impression,
not quite free from suspicions as to its being some infernal machine,
the real purposes of which we kept secret. “Or else,” said one of the
attendants to his neighbour, as the Khán took his departure, “why should
they carry such a thing about with them? Did you feel its weight and
force as it spun?”
In the evening, after our visit yesterday, the Khán sent us a _zújafát_,
or cooked dinner of several native dishes. This evening he sent us tea,
sheep, fowls, eggs, butter, flour, &c., for our servants; and the Wazír
Walí Muhammad, who enjoys the reputation of being a clever gastronomic,
sent us a rich and varied assortment of dishes, which fully supported
the credit of his specialty. They differed little from the _menu_ which
it is the delight of Afghans to set before their guests.
Calát is the capital of Balochistan, and the summer residence of the
chief. It is a fortified little town, situated on the plain at the
extremity of a low ridge of hills called Sháh Mírán, and contains about
8000 inhabitants—a mixture of Baloch, Brahoe, Jat, and Dihwár, with a few
Hindu families. The town is indescribably filthy, and wears a thoroughly
decayed look. It is the largest town in the country, and the valley in
which it stands is the most populous. There are several villages and
fruit-gardens crowded together on the upper part of the valley near the
town. They produce excellent apricots, plums, peaches, and other fruits,
which are dried and exported. The mulberry and _sanjit_ (_oleagnus_) are
common here. The graceful foliage of the latter adorns the water-courses,
of which there are a great number in all directions, from hill-streams
and the subterranean conduits called _kárez_.
Great care and attention is paid to the culture of these gardens. They
are entirely in the hands of the Dihwár, a Persian-speaking people, who
here correspond to the Tajik of Afghanistan, and, like them, are Sunni
Muhammadans. In fact, there is not a Shia in the country, and the sect is
abominated with truly religious hatred. Lucerne (_ushpusht_) is largely
grown here as a fodder crop, and yields five or six or even eight crops
a year, under careful irrigation and manuring. I saw some men digging
up the roots of the plant as food for their cattle. They are long and
fibrous, and are considered very nourishing food for cows and goats, &c.
Beetroot too is grown here, and tobacco in small quantity.
In the gardens here we found numbers of thrushes, starlings, and
magpies. We also saw the red-billed crow and the golden eagle. The magpie
(here called _shakúk_, and at Kabul, _kalghúchak_) is of the same colour
and character as the English bird, but smaller in size. The villagers
here were friendly, and free from the arrogance of the Afghan. They
appeared a peaceable, industrious and thriving community.
_25th January._—We left Calát, under a salute of eleven guns, at 11.10
A.M., and marched twenty-six miles to the village of Mundi Hájí in the
Mungachar valley. Our route was due north down the slope of the Calát
valley. At about the third mile we cleared the villages and gardens, and
going on over corn-fields and across irrigation streams, at the sixth
mile came to the Baba Walí _ziyárat_, a sacred shrine on the further side
of a deep pebbly ravine.
Here we parted from our kind friend Major Harrison, Political Agent at
the Court of Calát (“the fortress,” in Arabic), and stood a few minutes
to view the landscape we had left behind us at the southern extremity
of the valley. Calát, with its lofty citadel and towering palace, stood
forth the most dominant feature in the scene. Below it were crowded
together a number of villages, gardens, and corn-fields, that told of
peace and plenty, despite their present forlorn look under the withering
blasts of an almost arctic winter; whilst the background was closed by a
great snow-clad mountain, on the other side of which is Nichára. Such was
Calát as we saw it, but such, fortunately, is not always its appearance.
The forests of naked twigs and branches that now testify to the severity
of the season will a few weeks hence put forth their buds, and in summer
will be bowed down with the weight of their foliage and fruit. The snowy
barrier above will disappear, and disclose dark belts of the arbor vitæ
and pistacia, whilst the bare plain below will put on its coat of green,
and roll with fields of yellow corn. As described, the summer must indeed
be a delightful season here; and if it is mild in proportion to the
severity of the winter, I can understand the ecstasies with which the
natives expatiate on its delights. Taking a last look at Calát, and a
parting adieu from our friend, we turned and faced the dreary waste of
hill and dale that stretched away before us to the northward.
Our road skirted a low ridge of hills on our left, and led by a
well-beaten path over the pasture ground of Bandúkhí. At the ninth mile
we passed a cross-road leading to the village of Girání on the other
side of the ridge to our left, and beyond it gently descended to the
pastures of Marján, from which we rose on to an undulating upland tract,
leaving the valley to our right, and came to the Laghání Kotal. This is
a rough pass over a ridge of slate and sandstone hills, and conducts
down a long and stony hill-skirt to the plain of Mungachar, which is an
alluvial valley, intersected by numerous _kárez_ conduits, dotted here
and there with villages, and covered with great patches of snow-white
saline encrustations. From the top of the pass we got a good view of the
Chihltan mountain away to the north, and of the Kárcháp range away to the
south-west, both deeply covered with snow; whilst nearer at hand, to our
right front and right, were the lesser hills of Koh Márán and Keláb, just
whitened at their summits.
On descending to the valley, we had to make a long detour to the right,
in order to avoid a wide extent of mire, produced by flooding the fields
from the _kárez_ streams, and only reached Mundi Hájí at the foot of
Bidiring hill at five P.M. This is a little hamlet of six or seven
detached houses; and as the evening air was very cold, and our baggage
not even in sight across the plain (it did not all come up till ten
P.M.), we took shelter in the principal house, which was very willingly
vacated by its tenants for our use.
On our way across the valley we passed the ruins of a village called
Dádar. It was the largest of the ten or twelve villages that are
scattered over the Mungachar plain, and was plundered and destroyed by
the rebel Sherdil Khán some eight years ago, when he ousted the present
Khán of Calát, as has already been mentioned.
Whilst we were waiting the arrival of our baggage, our host, Ummed
Khán, Ráisání, walked in and unconcernedly seated himself on the carpet
he had obligingly spread for us. He was a petty farmer, of simple
unsophisticated manners, and quite charmed us with his good nature,
sensible conversation, and freedom from prejudice. He was explaining to
us the protective virtues of a bag of dust that attracted my attention
as it hung against one of the two props supporting the roof, when the
arrival of our cook with the kitchen establishment was announced, and
he disappeared to provide fuel and water. Having done this, he returned
and favoured us with his company, whilst we disposed of our evening
meal; and we now heard the history of the bag above mentioned. It was
briefly this:—Saggid Maurúsí, the patron saint of this place, and whose
shrine stands on a rocky mound hard by, was a very holy man. During his
life he dispensed charms with a liberal hand for the protection of the
faithful against all manner of evils; and since his death, so great
was the sanctity of his character, the virtues of his charms have been
communicated to the ashes of his tomb. All who seek the intercession
of the saint carry away a little of the dust from his shrine, and keep
it in their houses, to avert the evil eye, and protect the inmates and
their cattle, &c., from sickness or other calamity. The dust is called
_khurda_ and is an undoubted efficacious charm.
Our host having paused in his conversation, I offered him a cup of tea,
which, to my surprise—accustomed as I had been to the narrow prejudices
of Indian caste—he readily accepted, as also some cold fowl. Another cup
of tea and another fowl was offered for the lady of the house, whose
bright eyes were curiously peering at us from the doorway of an opposite
chamber. The husband took them away, and presently a merry laugh of
gratification assured us of the appreciation of the attention. Early next
morning, whilst doing a rough toilet outside, my glass propped against
a wall, I caught the reflection of our landlady straining her eyes from
the opposite side of the court to see what I was looking into as my comb
and brushes performed their usual offices. Turning round, I gratified
her curiosity with a peep at her own comely features in the glass. Her
delight and unrestrained simplicity were most amusing. She held the
mirror in both hands before her, viewed herself in it, posed her head
first on this side then on the other, smiled, frowned, stared, trimmed
her mouth, smoothed her hair, and stroked her nose in succession. She
turned the mirror round and examined its back a moment, and then again
devoted herself to its reflecting surface, and, taking up her baby,
placed its cheek against her own, and viewed both together, and smiled
with innocent satisfaction. It was an amusing spectacle, and in every
particular, excepting the baby, was the exact repetition of what I have
seen a monkey do with a looking-glass. The young woman was so evidently
pleased with the mirror, that I gave it to her, and she ran off inside
the house, no doubt to look at it afresh.
We left Mundi Hájí at 8.10 A.M., and marched twenty-six miles, and
camped at the Kárez Amánullah. The morning air was sharp, and, by the
thermometer, showed nine degrees of frost. Our path led over a narrow
stony upland, covered with artemisia scrub, and bounded on either side
by the hill ranges of Bidiring and Buzi, both of which were tipped with
snow. In two hours we reached the crest of the upland, and by a gentle
slope in another hour reached a roadside shrine on the border of the Khad
Mastung, or Lower Mastung valley.
We halted here awhile to allow the baggage to get on ahead, and meanwhile
examined the horns, of which a great number adorned the shrine. They were
mostly those of the ibex and uriár (or wild sheep), here called _het_ and
_kharr_ respectively, and in Persia _buz_ and _bakhta_. None of the horns
were very large or unusually fine, but I took a couple of each kind as
specimens.
Before us, to the northward, lay a great waste, on which, at about five
miles off, stood the village of Gorú, with wide patches of white soda
efflorescence scattered here and there over the plain. Far away to the
north, the prospect is closed by the snowy mass of the Chihltan mountain,
which separates Mastung from Shál.
After a halt of an hour and a half we proceeded, and passing the
Sháwání cultivation and Gorú cemetery, at 3.30 P.M. arrived at our
camping-ground. The valley dips gently to the northward, and presents a
very dreary aspect. The soil is powdery, and surcharged with salines,
which here and there form great sheets of snow-white encrustation. The
cultivation is very scanty, and all _khushkába_, that is, dependent on
the skies for irrigation. The fields are little square patches, banked up
on all sides to catch and retain what rain showers upon them. Not a tree
is visible on the plain; the Sháwání Brahoe huts are scattered over its
surface in clusters of four or five together, but are mostly situated
along the base of the Chuttok hills bounding the valley to the westward.
At Amánullah we pitched our camp in the hollows of some sandy undulations
of the surface, by way of shelter from the north wind, which swept over
the plain in gusts of chilling force. Hard by, lower down the course
of the _kárez_, are the ten or twelve huts composing the village. They
looked poor hovels, and were quite in keeping with the dreary and wintry
aspect of the country.
We set out hence at 8.30 next morning, and marched nine miles to Mastung,
where we arrived in two hours, and alighted at quarters prepared for
us in the fort. The first part of our route was over the Amánullah
cultivation, and across a deep _kárez_ cut, on to an undulating waste,
beyond which we came to the corn-fields and walled gardens of Mastung.
As we approached Mastung, a flight of blue pigeons settled on a ploughed
field off the road, and I turned off and shot three of them, all very
plump, and with their crops full of grain. Out of curiosity I opened
the crop of one, and counted its contents. They were as follows,
namely:—320 grains of barley, 20 of wheat, 50 of millet, 5 of peas or
pulse, and several other smaller grains I did not recognise. The flight
consisted of upwards of a hundred pigeons, and during the march we had
seen several such flights. From these data, some idea may be formed of
the loss inflicted on the farmer by these birds. One of our escort, who
witnessed the process of investigation above described, expressed great
astonishment, and observed that the birds had met a “justly deserved
fate for robbing the widows’ store.” The meaning of the allusion is,
I presume, that the general out-turn of the harvest being diminished
by the depredations of these birds, the widows’ store would suffer in
proportion.
At two miles from Mastung we were met by a party of fifty horsemen,
headed by Náib ’Abdurrahmán, the governor of the district. He was a fine
handsome man, of quiet and unassuming demeanour, but was poorly clad and
badly mounted. His cavalcade, too, was a sorry collection of both men and
horses. As regards the brute part of the gathering, this is surprising,
for the country here is highly cultivated, and produces abundance of
forage. The Náib conducted us through a succession of walled gardens to
the quarters prepared for us inside the fort, in front of the gate of
which were drawn up twenty files of infantry, with a band of three tin
pipes and two drums, to receive us with military honours. As we came up,
the commanding officer, with a wide sweep of his sword, brought its edge
to the tip of his nose, and holding it there perpendicularly, exactly
between the eyes, shouted, in a stentorian voice, “Generaylee saloot!”
a summons that started a man from each end of the line six paces to the
front, and fixed the rest, with gaping mouths and muskets held at all
slopes, full gaze upon us. We now came abreast of the commanding officer,
who all of a sudden missed the music, the band being intently absorbed
in the spectacle of our procession; but a quick turn, and some violent
gesticulations in their direction, immediately startled the three youths
with the tin pipes into the perpetration of three shrill squeaks, which
were accompanied by a rattle on the drums by their two juvenile comrades
behind.
The General acknowledged the honour with a graceful salute, and we passed
through the fort gate into a succession of narrow winding passages
leading from courtyard to courtyard, all strewn with several inches of
stable refuse and disfigured by dung-heaps, till at length we came to one
larger than the others, though not a whit less filthy, where a guard
of four soldiers drawn up opposite a portal informed us we had reached
our quarters, and a salute of eleven guns announced the fact to the
townspeople.
The interior, happily, was not in keeping with the exterior. The two
rooms of which the house consisted had been swept, and clean carpets had
been laid down for our reception, and, as we entered, fires were lighted
to warm them. Altogether we were agreeably surprised, and found our
lodging, despite the surroundings, a very comfortable shelter from the
wintry blasts outside.
The northern part of the Mastung valley is highly cultivated, and
populous villages, fruit gardens, and corn-fields follow each other in
close succession, and extend in one unbroken stretch for several miles
along the foot of the Hamách and Khark hills, separating the valley from
the Dashtí Bedaulat. The gardens produce the grape, apple, apricot,
quince, almond, plum, cherry, pomegranate, oleagnus, and mulberry.
The pear and peach do not grow here, though they do abundantly in the
adjoining valley of Shál. The fields produce wheat, barley, maize,
millet, pulse, lucerne, madder, tobacco, and the common vegetables,
such as carrots, turnips, onions, cabbages, &c., but not cotton. The
inhabitants are Brahoe and Dihwár, with some Baloch and Afghan families
and Hindu traders.
In summer Mastung must be a delightful residence, both in respect of
climate and scenery. The winter is cold and bleak, but mild in comparison
with its rigorous severity at Calát. Its elevation is about 5600 feet
above the sea, and it is partially sheltered from the north wind by the
hills bounding it in that direction. Its climate is described as very
salubrious, and certainly the healthy looks of its inhabitants support
the truth of the assertion.
Its scenery is very fine in itself, but, compared with the dreary wastes
and rugged wilds of the country to the southward, is quite charming, by
reason of its profuse vegetation and crowded population. The precipitous
heights of Chihltan towering above the valley to the north constitute
the grand feature of the scenery, and at this season, shrouded as the
mountain is in a thick mantle of snow, present a magnificent spectacle
by reason of their massive grandeur and overpowering proximity. Chihltan
is the highest and best-wooded mountain in this country, but it is
very steep and rugged, the trees being scattered in small clumps on
favouring ledges and in deep recesses. The arbor vitæ, pistacia kabulica,
mountain ash, wild fig, and mulberry are the principal trees found on the
mountain. It is said to abound in snakes and pythons, also wild goat and
wild sheep. The wolf, leopard, and hyena are also found in it, but not
the bear.
Towards sunset the sky became overcast with clouds, and thick mists
obscured the mountains from our view.
_28th January._—We set out from Mastung at 7.15 A.M., whilst the signal
gun in the citadel was slowly doling out a salute of eleven guns. The
morning air was cold, dull, and misty, and presaged ill for the day.
We no sooner cleared the gardens around the town, than we entered on a
bare sandy tract of some miles in extent, in the midst of which, like
an oasis in the desert, stands the little hamlet of Isá Khán. Away to
the left were seen the villages and gardens of Fírí, and to the right
those of Pringábád. Our route across the sandy waste was most trying. A
blighting north wind swept down from the hills straight against us, and
drove clouds of sand with blinding force before it. Our escort dwindled
down to three or four horsemen who kept up with us, and they were so
completely muffled up that it was impossible to get them to hear a word
we said, and utterly hopeless to draw them into conversation. Beyond
this sandy waste we entered on a rough ravine-cut gulf in the hills, and
crossing the Mobí rivulet a little below the Khushrúd hamlet—the last of
the Mastung villages in this direction—rose out of its deep ravine on to
a sloping hill skirt, white with wavy wreaths of fresh snow, now frozen
hard by the cold wind. Ascending thus along the base of Chihltan, we
arrived at the entrance to the Nishpá or Dishpa Pass in three hours and
a quarter—distance, thirteen miles. Here we halted under the bank of a
rocky water-course to allow the baggage to come up, and to breakfast off
such cold commodities as our cook had provided for us.
The view of the valley left behind us was completely obscured by dense
clouds of sand driving across the plain, but immediately above us was a
scene sufficient to rivet the attention with awe-inspiring sentiments.
The beetling cliffs of Chihltan, here and there reft of their cumbrous
loads of snow through sheer weight of its mass, rose above us in imposing
magnitude, and, domineering over the lesser hills around, formed a
picture such as is seldom equalled.
A little to the right of the Nishpá Pass is the Toghaghi hill, over the
ridge of which is a _lak_ or pass that conducts direct to the Dashtí
Bedaulat plain. It is very difficult for laden camels, and is mostly used
by footmen only. The Nishpá Pass, between Chihltan and Zindan mountains,
is four miles long up to its crest, to which it winds by a very steady
ascent. Though now covered with snow, we could here and there trace the
road made through the pass in 1839 by the engineers of the British army.
The pass is an easy one.
We reached the crest of the pass in a driving storm of hail and sleet,
and by the aneroid estimated its elevation at about 6000 feet. The
descent from the crest turns to the right down to the Dashtí Bedaulat,
leaving a forest of pistacia trees in a glen away to the left. The forest
is called Hazár Ganjí, from the number of trees—_gwan_ in Brahoeki, and
_khinjak_ in Pushto, being the colloquial names of the pistacia kabulica.
The Dashtí Bedaulat is a singular hill-girt plain, perfectly level, and
perfectly bare. It is, as the name implies, an unproductive waste, and
this from the entire absence of water. It lies at the top of the Bolán
Pass, the road from which skirts its border opposite to our position.
From the Dashtí our road turned northward again, and led down a rough and
stony defile to Sariáb in the valley of Shál. To the left the land is
covered with a forest of _gwan_ trees, and rises rapidly to the foot of
the Chihltan range, and close on our right is the Koh Landi ridge, which
separates us from the caravan road from Sariáb to Saribolán. In front of
us is the plain of Shál. It lies at a considerably lower level, and wears
a very bleak and wintry look, with its leafless gardens and bare fields,
girt around by a mountain barrier topped with snow. At the edge of the
Sariáb lands we were met by the Náib Abdul Latíf and a party of fifteen
or sixteen horsemen—a most ragged and ruffianly set of rascals. We did
not stop for the usual ceremony of compliments, as a shower of hail was,
at the moment of our meeting, driving hard pellets with painful violence
against our faces, but hurried on to the quarters prepared for us in a
small fortified hamlet near the Lora rivulet. We arrived there at 2.45
P.M., after a very trying march of twenty-nine miles, and found the huts
so filthy and close that we had our tents pitched in the court of the
fort as soon as the baggage came up.
In fine weather this march would have been very enjoyable, for the
scenery, of its kind, is very wild and grand. But our experiences have
left anything but agreeable recollections of this part of our journey.
During the first part of the route we were nearly suffocated with clouds
of sand; in the pass we were for the time blinded by driving snows, and
beyond we had to face pelting hail; whilst all the way our limbs were
numbed through by a searching north wind, whose chilling blasts require
to be felt to be properly appreciated.
Next day we marched thirteen miles to Shál Kot, or the Fort of Shál. We
could not cross the Lora direct on account of the bogs and swamps on each
side its course, so had to go back over the last few miles of yesterday’s
march, and make a detour round the southern end of the valley, till we
reached the highroad from Shál to the Bolán.
Attended by a couple of horsemen, I followed the course of the stream for
some distance, in the hopes of getting some wild duck. But the ground
was so swampy and deep in mud, I could not get within shot. After much
searching, my attendants found a spot where we forded the stream with
some trouble, and on the other side I got a few snipe, and then rode off
across the plain, and joined our own party a few miles from Shál.
Whilst shooting down the course of the Lora, I was much amused at the
simplicity of my sole attendant, for his comrade had lagged far behind
to wash himself and horse, both having become mud-begrimed by a fall in
a bog. I was trying to light my pipe with the aid of a burning-glass
I carried in my pocket, but finding the wind was too strong to allow
of my succeeding in the attempt, I called the man up and bid him stand
perfectly still. Then standing to the leeward, I caught a ray over the
tip of his shoulder, and presently effected my purpose. Seeing this,
the man turned and looked aside at his shoulder, and, to settle any
doubts, rubbed it roughly with the opposite hand, whilst he stared a
stare of wonderment at me. I assured him he was not on fire; that I had
got mine from the sun and not from him, and that there was no cause for
alarm; and, so saying, hurried after some wild-fowl I saw alight farther
down the stream, leaving him my horse to hold. I heard him muttering to
himself, and caught the words, “_Toba! toba! chi balá ast?_”—“Repentance!
repentance! what devilry is it?”
On approaching Shál we made a detour to the right to avoid a wide extent
of flooded fields, and passed an extensive graveyard, close to which,
on an open flat of ground, was pointed out to us a walled enclosure,
containing the graves of the Europeans who died here in 1839-40. The
wall is very low, but in good repair, and the sacred spot appears to be
respected by the natives. Not far from it are the remains of Captain
Bean’s house, when he was Political Resident here. Though roofless, the
shell is not very much damaged, and might be easily restored.
In front of the fort gate a military guard was drawn up to do honour to
the General. It consisted of twenty-five men in a single row. As we came
up, the officer in command gave the words in very plain English, “Rear
rank take open order;” a signal at which three men stepped to the front,
and gave the time to the rest in presenting arms, whilst the single gun
in the citadel fired a salute. Entering the town, we were presently
housed in quarters similar to those at Mastung.
Shál is a fortified town, and contains about twelve hundred houses
collected round a central mound on which stands the citadel. The
elevation of the citadel is much above the town, and it is the prominent
object in the valley, but its walls are very poor, and more or less
in a state of decay. By the natives it is called Shál Kot, and by the
Afghans Kwatta, or “the little fort,” whence our Quetta. The valley of
Shál is very similar to that of Mastung, and, like it, drains westward to
Shorawak.
The garrison of Shál consists of one hundred infantry, almost all of
whom are Afghans, with a few other mercenaries. There are besides fifty
horsemen, and a dozen artillerymen for the one gun they have here. These
troops are under the command of the Náib or governor, Abdul Latíf, who
on emergency can collect a force of about five thousand _íljárí_, or
militia, from the neighbouring hills, armed with matchlock, sword, and
shield.
Shál is described as a delightful residence in summer, and is said to
possess a temperate and salubrious climate, in which respect it resembles
the valley of Mastung. The whole valley is covered with villages and
corn-fields and gardens, through the midst of which flows the Lora
rivulet; but the soil is almost everywhere impregnated—with nitre and
soda-salts.
The scenery around is very fine, and affords a wide and varied field for
the pencil of the artist, particularly at this season, when the rugged
heights of the greater mountains are deeply covered with snow. Towards
the east, the valley is closed by the lesser ranges of Siyah Pusht and
Murdár. To the south are the Landi ridge and Chihltan mountain. From the
latter projects the low range of Karassa which sweeps round the valley
towards the Muchilagh range, forming its western boundary; and between
them is a gap that leads into the Dulay valley and plain of Shorawak.
To the north, the valley is overlooked by the great Tokátú peak and
Zarghún range. These last are occupied by the Domarr section of the
Kákarr tribe. They are described as the most savage and hardy of all the
Afghan mountaineers, and have proved quite irreclaimable by either the
government of Kabul or that of Calát. They often give trouble on this
border, and formerly used to plunder the country as far as the Nishpá
Pass, in collusion with their brethren of the Bánzai section occupying
the hills slopes of Shál. They harry the road into Peshín by Tal
Chhotiyálí, so much so, that it is now deserted as a caravan route. This
is the route that was proposed as one we might journey by, when it was
found we could not proceed by the Bolán Pass; but, thanks to the decision
of Sir William Merewether, we were directed into a safer route, and thus
saved from falling into the clutches of these utter savages.
There is a road direct from Shál over the hills between Tokátú and
Zarghún to the Tal Chhotiyálí route, but it is seldom used, owing to the
risks from predatory Domarr, through whose territories it passes. These
people have no large villages, but are scattered over the hills in caves
and sheds with their flocks and sheep. During the winter, they descend to
the lower valleys, where they pass the time in their black tents. They
cultivate only sufficient ground for the supply of their wants, and for
the most part live on the produce of their flocks, such as milk, butter,
flesh, and the inspissated cheese known as _kroot_. From the goats’ hair
they manufacture ropes and the black tents called _kizhdí_, and from the
sheep’s wool they make the thick felt cloaks called _kosai_, which, with
a pair of loose cotton trousers, constitute the whole winter dress of
most of the people. The Domarr are said to muster nearly four thousand
families.
A curious custom is said to prevail amongst them. In the spring and
summer evenings, the young men and maidens of adjoining camps assemble on
the hillsides, and shouting “_Pír murr nadai, jwandai dai_” (“The old man
is not dead, he lives”), romp about till—I suppose on the principle of
natural selection—the opposite sexes pair off in the favouring darkness,
and chase each other amongst the trees and rocks, till summoned home by
the calls of their respective parents. It does not appear that the custom
leads to the contraction of matrimonial alliances amongst the performers,
though to its observance is attributed the hardiness and populousness of
the tribe.
During the afternoon, a messenger arrived from Cushlác with letters from
the Afghan Commissioner for General Pollock, intimating his arrival there
with a military escort for our safe conduct to Kandahar. It is therefore
arranged that we proceed in the morning, apparently much to the relief of
our host, the Náib Abdul Latíf, who seemed apprehensive lest the Afghan
troops should cross the border into the district under his charge on the
plea of meeting us, and thus unsettle the minds of his subjects with the
idea that they were to be annexed to the Kabul dominions, between which
and the territories of the Khán of Calát the Cushlác Lora is the present
boundary.
Originally both Shál and Mastung with Shorawak formed part of the kingdom
erected by Sháh Ahmad, Durrani. They were subsequently made over to Nasír
Khán, chief of Balochistan, in return for his allegiance and maintenance
of a contingent of troops in the interest of the Afghan sovereign.
These districts are still considered by the Afghans as portion of their
country, though they remain under the rule of the Khán of Calát; and in
1864, when Sherdil Khán usurped the government from the present chief,
Khudádád Khán, the Governor of Kandahar made an attempt to reannex
them to his province, but in this he was thwarted by the action of the
British authorities, and the restoration of Khudádád Khán to his rightful
government.